


Flower Witch

by Nowhere_Asterisk



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Case Fic, F/M, Reader Insert
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-05
Updated: 2017-09-13
Packaged: 2018-11-09 04:45:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11097180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nowhere_Asterisk/pseuds/Nowhere_Asterisk
Summary: Second-person fiction of a cursed-object case fic. The reader is definitely interested in Castiel.





	1. Fancy

The digs are more than a bit fancier than usual. No neon signs out front, no tacky themed decor. The bathtub does not appear as though it would give one athletes foot. A simple black dress with matching crushed velvet shrug hung in the closet, still encased in the dry cleaning bag. An antique pearl necklace, garnering a modicum of protection against witchcraft, is laid out in a cigar box.

Excellent water pressure and just the right temperature have convinced you that this shower was divinely crafted. The complementary shampoo and soap are actually nice smelling. The no-tell motel variety are usually reminiscent of something designed for dogs; overly chemical, drying, and harsh. Gardenia, not flea repellant, will be the scent of the evening, apparently.

Freshly showered and dressed for a night of blending in and hobnobbing in aforementioned accoutrements, the parking lot is observed. Among the high end automobiles in the lot there are two sore thumbs. One, the sleek, black ’67 Impala that Dean so lovingly refers to as Baby. Two, the lifted blue-green Chevy Astro that Dean had snidely dubbed “The Mystery Machine”. Baby could almost belong to one of the dusty old-timers or trust-fund types that were attending this shindig. Some old callback to sexier days, or an attempt to purchase character, perhaps. The Mystery Machine (truly, the name was not inapt) was the real standout. Perhaps the brush guard, roof racks, and KC lights had given it away as Not One Of You. It doesn’t matter. Their Audi’s and Mercedes would never be able to handle the terrain that the Mystery Machine could. Hell, even Baby can’t boogie down backroads quite like the Machine. Let the Q-Tips and Ivy-leaguers believe the anomaly in the parking lot belonged to one of their more adventurous progeny. Usually off shooting elephants or attending festivals somewhere.

A knock on the door announces the arrival of the calvary. Dean just about fills the door frame, with Sam taking up the rest of the space and Castiel’s form blocking out the rest of the hallway.

“By all means, gentlemen, come in”

Dean whistles appreciatively, “Wow, you clean up nicely.”

The Winchesters look good, too. They always look good. Sam and Dean have managed to rustle up two black suits, cut in a much more flattering style than their usual FBI getups. “A little soap doesn’t hurt the three of you, either.” Witty quip of the evening. Most of your brain power has recently been diverted into processing what Castiel is wearing.

Castiel, Angel of the Lord, can be found at most times shrouded in a bulky trench coat and ill-fitting two-piece suit favored by his mid-level sales persona vessel. As of late, he had managed to find a suit that actually fit, though the bulky trench coat had stubbornly stuck around. Tonight, however, he’s wearing a very fitted charcoal grey three-piece ensemble, sans overcoat. The tie appears to be the very same deep blue tie that he’s always favored, but paired with the charcoal grey it really brings out his eyes. There’s something about Castiel in a waistcoat that makes you lose all higher brain functioning. Maybe it’s the way that it accentuates just how broad his chest is and how narrow his hips are. Whatever it is, Sam’s looking at you with a puzzled expression on his face. As though he had just been speaking to you, and you didn’t hear a damn thing.

“Are you clear on this? We’re just locating the statue tonight. Don’t touch it or try to steal it during the party, it’ll just draw more attention to it and possibly lead to another fatal accident.” 

“What? Oh. Yes. I know, Sam.” Whew, get a grip. We’re here to get eyes on a cursed statue, not to make goo-goo eyes at the angel.

Dean’s smirking. This can’t be good. “So, you’re good? Find the magic Foo Fighter statue, don’t touch it, we’ll break in and steal it later? Capisce?”

Castiel squinted and tilted his head at Dean’s Foo Fighter comment.

“It’s a foo dog, Dean, not a Foo Fighter. And it’s 7 inches tall, made out of jade, probably under a glass case with other artifacts.” Honestly. Sometimes they focus more on hunter credentials than any academic background. Shooting ghosts and studying ancient artifacts are not mutually exclusive pursuits, and you’d think that supernatural hunters would remember that.

“Mmm-hmm. Listen, Sam and I will mingle, get to know the crowd, get some ladies to talk. You and Cas should pair up, y’know, have each other’s backs.” There’s that smirk again.

“I can take care of myself, Dean”

“I know you can, sweetheart, it’s Cas that I’m worried about”

Castiel frowns “Dean, I too am perfectly capable of taking care of myself in combat situations”

Sam’s eyes just about rolled into the back of his head. “Look. We know that you’re both capable of physically taking care of yourselves. But, Cas, buddy, you’re still working on the whole human interaction thing. Pairing up will at least keep the cougars at bay.”

Castiels’ squint deepens, “I didn’t think there were any mountain lions in central Illinois?”


	2. Shall We Dance?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So much scenery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is progressing slowly, I know.

After several reports of people flinging themselves off of tall structures, seemingly without the usual suicidal dispositions, you had conducted a bit of research to see if it was indeed a case and not just a rash of people hiding their despair up until the last moment. Lo and behold; it was a case. The culprit being a small jade carving of a guardian lion from Tibet, commonly referred to in the states as a ‘foo dog’. An antique, likely smuggled illicitly from China, the statue had made its way through the hands of several high end art and artifact dealers. The dealers had for the most part met with messy endings, leaving the foo dog to be regarded as an object of morbid fascination akin to the Hope Diamond. It makes sense that it would end up in the hands of one Raymond Richards, a self-styled Gomez Addams type.

Richards is the current owner of many morbid artifacts, including the White Sage Hotel - a sprawling, gothic structure that was a popular vacation destination for the who’s who of railroad tycoons and oil barons of 19th century Chicago. After decades of disrepair and a series of grisly murders in the 1980s, the hotel had been shut down. Raymond Richards purchased the property in the early 2000s and had it completely renovated and restored. The White Sage is the current venue for tonight’s charity gala.

“According to the information that you gathered, the majority of Raymond Richards' art and artifacts are located off of the main ball room, in a library and several small gallery rooms.” Castiel intones from just behind you in the small antique elevator.

“I knew that I could count on you to do the assigned reading, Castiel.” You sway playfully into his space and nudge him with your shoulder.

“Of course.” He places his hand on your shoulder and guides you out of the elevator as the ornate brass screen slides to the side. Antique with some modern updates.

Cas’s arm across your back and hand on your shoulder is friendly. Cozy, even. However, if the two of you are to appear to be ‘together’ for the sake of saving Cas from social faux-pas, you’ve got to appear a bit more than just friendly. Looking up at his sharp profile, you muster the guts to ask him to move his arm lower before reaching the foyer. His eyebrow cocks up minutely and his hand slides down to rest on your waist. 

“Does this position communicate the correct level of physical intimacy?” He asks, tucking you closer to his side, for good measure.

Hmm, yeah. Just a little bit closer. You manage to school the swooning look off of your face before responding, even though he obviously caught it. “Yes, Cas, I think the picture is clearer, now.” Clever angel. He knows exactly what he’s doing. Shit.

The elegant marbled foyer is decked out in 19th century portraits with ferns and orchids planted in a variety of receptacles. Historical call backs paired up with a few modern aesthetics. Whomever Richards hired for an interior decorator, they have a good eye. A steward asks for yours and Cas’s invitations to the gala. Castiel produces them from an inside pocket of his jacket without much fanfare, though sadly removes his hand from your waist to do so. Obtaining the invitations for the four of you was easy enough - anthropologist by day, hunter of the supernatural by night. And weekend. And researcher of obscure information in just about any hour of need.

The main ballroom is similarly decorated in a fusion of historical and contemporary aesthetics in a pleasing manner. A string quartet is set up across the room. You spy Dean casually draped across the bar, chatting up the pretty blond bartender. Sam is off to the other side of the room, near the large Palladian windows overlooking the terrace, seemingly in an animated discussion with an older couple.

Going to the bar with Dean already there would potentially draw too much attention to the four of you. For the purposes of appearances it was determined early on in the planning stages that you and Castiel should feign ignorance of Sam and Dean’s existence outside of the gala. Likewise, scurrying off to a side room after just arriving to the party would draw undue attention to the real mission. 

“I don’t suppose that dancing is one of your secret angel powers, Castiel?”

“Rhythmic motion to a mathematical pattern of sounds is something that I am proficient in, yes, though it is not as you say, an angel power.” Goodness, his voice is deep.


	3. Dance Party

Figuring out where to put your hands was easy; left hand on Castiel’s fantastically broad shoulder, right hand securely in his left. Finding the rhythm and not stepping on his toes is straightforward enough. Figuring out a safe place to look however, was proving to be the challenge of the night. Being in such close proximity to the angel leaves the option of staring at his neck and shoulder, or looking up slightly at his face. You’re a professional, dammit, you can look him in the eye while dancing. It’s just Castiel. With his gorgeous deep blue eyes looking intently into yours. Focus! Scan the room casually.

Dean appears to have sauntered out of the main ballroom. You catch Sam’s unmistakable frame slipping into what looks like the library out of your peripheral vision. Castiel squeezes your hand to pull your attention back to him.

“Dean is in the north gallery room. When this piece of music ends, we should observe the south gallery. Sam is in the library.” His voice is quiet so as not to be overheard by the other people on the dance floor.

“It doesn’t look as though the door to the south gallery is open. Richards may have it locked during the gala. His collection of artifacts is quite extensive and there may be only a few available for display even for an event like this.”

Something like a smile crossed Castiel’s face. “I can get us in there, we just have to get somewhere out of camera view first.”

Glancing quickly around the crown molding near the vaulted ceiling, you did indeed notice several sleek black domes concealing cameras. “Well, let’s stop at the bar for a drink before we abscond to the terrace. It will look less odd.”

The song ends and Castiel drapes his arm across your back to rest on your waist again. His hands are very large. And warm. At the bar the bartender that Dean had been flirting with gives you and Castiel a lingering once over that is more than cursory. It might be paranoia, but it feels like she can’t decide which to stare at longer, your anti-hex necklace or the angel. Not that she could know about either of those things being more than they appear. It’s just a pearl necklace and a beautiful man, as far as Suzy-barmaid should be concerned.

“Good evening,” her attention snaps back to your face. “What can I get you two lovely folks?”  
“Two gin and tonics, please.”

As you pay for your drinks you notice that the bartender - Barbara, claims the tag affixed to her black vest - though in every other way perfectly in place with the setting, has unusually scarred up hands. As though she bareknuckle boxes in her spare time. Perhaps she does. Stop being paranoid.

Drinks in hand, Castiel leans into your space while you walk towards the terrace as casually as you can. “Something is off about that bartender, but I couldn’t say what exactly.”

“She’s giving you the heebie-jeebies too, huh? I didn’t think there would be much that your angel radar couldn’t suss out.”

Castiel looks a little taken aback at that comment. “I am powerful, and I have been around for a long time, but I’m not omniscient. There are many things in creation which I have not encountered. Though I doubt that the bartender is any real danger.”

“I trust your instincts better than mine, in any case.”

You sit on the stone railing that skirts the terrace and sip your drink. There are a multitude of stars visible from the Richards property, far out in the country as it is. Taking a moment, you lean back and look up. The older couple that Sam had been chatting with earlier make their way up the steps from the twilight gardens below.

“Beautiful night for a stroll.” Comments the man.

“Has Mr. Richards given his speech yet?” Asks the woman. In her sensible heels and deep blue dress, she is a tiny slip of a thing that only comes up to Castiel’s sternum. She appears to be giving Cas a good long appraisal, not caring about the presence of her companion. Or you for that matter.

“I haven’t seen Mr. Richards at all,” you take the opportunity to slide from the railing and wrap an arm around Cas. It’s a tough job, but someone has to do it. “Though it’s still fairly early in the evening. I do recall that there is a silent auction as part of the night’s activities, perhaps he’ll make an appearance then.”

The charity gala is to provide scholarships for inner-city and rural students who would otherwise be unable to attend college or vocational programs. Raymond Richards is auctioning off some of his art and artifact collection, though you and the Winchesters are pretty sure, not the cursed foo dog.

The older gentleman clears his throat to catch his companion’s attention. She’s still shamelessly staring at Castiel. “Come along, Margo. We might have time to get a dance or two in before whiling away our grandchildren’s inheritance on some exotic knick-knack.”

“Were I accompanied by such an exquisite young man, I’d be partaking of a different kind of dancing in the darkened corners of the garden.” The woman looks Castiel up and down once more before giving you a lecherous wink and joining her husband.

Honestly, it’s not as though the thought hadn’t crossed your mind. After hearing it aloud, you were pretty sure that your face was now bright red.

“Come on, Cas, we have work to do.”


	4. We've Got Some Work To Do Now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh look, an update.

Arms firmly linked together, you and Cas descend the flight of marble steps, ostensibly to stroll along the gardens as was suggested. Just out for an innocent stroll. Definitely not looking for a dark alcove to fly into a locked room from. Certainly not out to ravish the ridiculously hot angel in a secluded corner. Focus! Mission first, fun later.

Once sequestered in a shadowed area of the garden, Castiel scans about for any hidden cameras.

“We are out of sight, here. I must warn you, some people find flight to be extremely unpleasant and disorientating.”

“Yes, Dean might’ve mentioned the side effects once or twice.” You look up at him, the sharp angles of his jaw catching some of the light from a reflecting fountain. “How do you know that we’ll land in the the south gallery out of camera sight? I would be a bit jarring for two people to suddenly appear on screen should anyone be watching.”

“I have an idea of where to land that should be safe.” He steps closer to you and rests his hands on your shoulders. Castiel doesn’t have to touch someone to fly with them, but you kind of like that he does.

In a blink you are suddenly inside of The White Sage again, though not the ballroom. The south gallery is quite a large space. There are no windows. Emergency lights cast long eerie shadows from the various artifacts hanging from the walls and displayed in cases. Cas has landed the two of you directly between two large Haida totem pole carvings at the far end of the gallery from the locked door. 

Mildly disoriented from the flight, you lean against one of the totem poles and glance up at the grimacing face of a raven. “Okay, did you know that these two were going to be here, or did you just guess?”

Castiel smiles benevolently down at you. “When Sam was conducting research into the layout of the hotel, there were several interior photographs of the gallery spaces. It was difficult to miss these two. There don’t appear to be any cameras in this gallery at all.”

“That’s curious. Suppose Richards must be pretty darn confident in his perimeter and ballroom surveillance.”

It turns out that Raymond Richards, though competent when it comes to hiring interior decorators, needs to hire a better artifact curator. There are Aztec, Australian, Tibetan, and other cultural artifacts all hodge-podged together for display purposes with no regional or chronological logic. You and Castiel weave through the south gallery, looking for the small and deadly foo dog statue.

Cas calls your attention over to a white display pedestal topped with a rectangular plexiglass case. Inside, the foo dog statue sits without any hint as to it’s deadly curse.

“The last victim was an assistant curator who cleaned and prepared the foo dog for display. Touching this thing with bare hands is a no go, and it doesn’t sound like gloves would do a whole lot to stop the curse or spell, either. Any idea how to grab and disarm it?”

Castiel tilts his head and ponders the small statue. “Sam and Dean should have enchanted lock boxes in the car. It’s not ideal, but we’ll just have to put it in one of those and bring it back to the bunker for further research.” Abruptly, he looks at the nearby entrance door. “Someone is coming.”

Cas grabs you and you’re in the garden, back against the cool stone wall with six feet of hot angel crowded close to you. Primary mission accomplished, right? Hands resting on his waist, you tilt your head up and kiss him. His lips are very soft.

He looks at you with those dreamy blue eyes as you pull back from the kiss and whispers your name like a question. You kiss him again, a little more urgently. His arms bracket you against the wall as he deepens the kiss, hot tongue exploring your mouth. Hands sliding up his ribs over the smooth fabric of his waistcoat, you encounter something bulky and leather. Pulling back from Cas’ mouth with a surprised sound, you pull open his suit jacket and gawk.

“Are those angel blades? You have a shoulder holster for angel blades?”

Cas looks a little dazed, but amused at your incredulousness. “Where did you think I was going to hide them?” He smirks.

The blades are tucked into sleek black leather sheaths, one under each of his arms. The strapping is also black leather that loops around his shoulders. Guh, that’s so hot.

There is clapping coming from inside of the ballroom and indistinguishable talking. Cas steps back and turns to look at the building. “We should go back inside, it sounds like the auction has started. It is unlikely that the foo dog is part of the offerings, but we should signal to Sam and Dean that we found it.”


End file.
